


Wayward Tears

by dsa_archivist



Category: due South
Genre: F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-05-10
Updated: 1999-05-10
Packaged: 2018-11-10 19:26:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11133192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dsa_archivist/pseuds/dsa_archivist
Summary: Note from Speranza, the archivist: this story was once archived atDue South Archive. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I tried to reach out to all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address onDue South Archive collection profile.





	Wayward Tears

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Speranza, the archivist: this story was once archived at [Due South Archive](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Due_South_Archive). To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I tried to reach out to all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Due South Archive collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/duesoutharchive).

Wayward Tears

# Wayward Tears
    
    
    By: Michelle Sinclair
    Rated PG.  Romance.
    
    **Note: This is a Meg story.  I think I've given you fair warning. 
    
    Meg Thatcher sat at her desk in the Canadian Consulate.  She 
    concentrated on the list of names in front of her.  She had to decide
    where to take them for dinner.  Four officials from Ottawa were 
    coming into Chicago and she was charged with entertaining them.  She
    suspected that she was also being checked up on.  Though 
    there had been progress within the Canadian government in general and
    the RCMP in specific, some still didn't think a woman belonged in her
    position of authority.  Meg checked her watch.  Almost 6 P.M.  She sighed
    heavily.  Constable Fraser was long gone, as was 
    Constable Turnbull. She was supremely happy the latter was gone. Sometimes
    she wondered how Turnbull ever was accepted into the 
    RCMP.  She had to figure out what to do about the officials from Ottawa.
    She removed her jacket as she was going to be staying at least two more
    hours.  Removal of the pale blue jacket revealed the deeply cut V-neck
    silk shell she had worn today.  It was so white that it reminded her
    of snowfall back home.  She smiled softly to herself and allowed her
    thoughts to drift back to her youth.  That image of snow falling cascaded
    through her tired mind, mingled with the remembrance of a fire burning.
    She thought of her mother and father.  It was an idyllic life for six
    years. Who knew that the sweetness of her first six years of life could
    be replaced with such . . . heartache.  After the accident she had gone
    to live with her Aunt Sofia, a cold, harsh, abrasive woman.  Aunt Sofia
    taught her niece Meggy one thing: "Trust no one.  Love no one."
    She had taught Meg the difference between chosen solitude and forced
    loneliness.  If you never let anyone in, then no one could ever hurt
    you.  Meg would cry softly to herself at nights.  
    
    She blinked back the tears now.  An errant tear trickled down her cheek.
    She rubbed at her eye carelessly.  This act only accomplished one thing:
    it smudged her mascara down the side of her cheek in a black streak.
    Still not thinking clearly, she began to rummage through her purse for
    a mirror to inspect the damage.  She pulled the compact out and opened
    it.  The black smear was a glaring contrast to the paleness of her skin.
    She found a tissue and began to rub the mascara off her face.  It came
    off slowly, but had the odd effect of producing a faded blackness that
    looked rather like a bruise.  She stopped rubbing at the mascara and
    looked at her cheek.  She shivered suddenly.  It did look too much like
    a bruise.  She lightly touched the skin that had the faint remnant of
    blackness on it.  She half-expected it to be sensitive to her touch,
    half expecting to feel the pain throb again.  She did feel a specter
    of pain that lingered still, somewhere in her subconscious.  She fought
    against the memories, but it seemed that on this night she couldn't stop
    them.  She had gone to live with a foster family after Aunt Sofia had
    died when she was only 15. So much tragedy for such a young girl, the
    social worker had said.  Meg had said she didn't need a foster parent.
    She was fine on her own.  And she was, but that's not how things work.
    She had gone to live with a family. Her foster father beat her once when
    she had dared to fight off his sexual advances. She had run away and
    they had never seen her again. She left her hometown and headed off to
    Calgary.  Worked through college, joined the RCMP. Model officer.  First
    in her class.  She let out a sigh. So much tragedy. Meg hated to dwell
    on it.  Aunt Sofia had been right though, Meg never got hurt because
    she never let anyone close enough to hurt her.  
    
    "Inspector?"
    
    The word filtered through the pool of images that floated through her
    head. She looked up.  Fraser.  What was he doing here?  "What are
    you doing here, Constable?"
    
    "I . . . forgot something.  I didn't think anyone would be here
    now ma'am."
    
    "Well you thought wrong.  Proceed."  She looked down at the
    papers on her desk again as a way of dismissing him.  But he had heard
    the emotion in her voice and he wasn't moving.
    
    "Ma'am, do you need any help with . . ."  He wandered closer,
    trying to read the papers on her desk.  "The plans for the guests
    from Ottawa?" 
    
    She looked up at him.  "No. Thank you, I can do it."  She looked
    deeply into his eyes, pleading with him silently to just leave her alone.
    Fraser didn't notice her plea, or if he did, he just ignored it.
    
    "Are you all right, inspector?"  He wanted to ask if she'd
    been crying, she certainly looked like it.  But that wasn't an appropriate
    thing to ask your superior.
    
    "Fine, Fraser.  I really need to do this so if you could please
    get whatever you came for and go . . ."
    
    He looked at her more closely.  He brought his large hand down softly
    on her cheek, on the area of the black smudge.  She didn't flinch; wouldn't
    flinch "It's just some mascara," she said.
    
    "Yes, I know."  He could tell it wasn't a bruise, though it
    might be mistaken for one by a less observant person.  There was no 
    discoloration that was usually present in bruises . . .  the stripe was
    too uniform.  He kneeled down in front of her now, to look in her eyes
    directly.  He took her hand and opened up the tight fist that she had
    made.  He removed the balled up paper tissue and gently began wiping
    the smudge away.  He finished by carefully patting at the little rivulet
    of tears that had begun to brim over her lower left eye lid.  
    
    Fraser and Thatcher looked at each other for a long moment.  He was still
    crouched down in front of her, her small hand was still in his larger
    one.  He was rubbing her hand with his thumb reassuringly.  She looked
    up, breaking his gaze.  Her heart was palpitating at a dangerous rate
    in her chest.  
    
    "Meg?  You want me to leave?"  he asked in a coarse whisper.
    
    "I want . . . could you help me?"  she said this beseechingly.
    "I . . ." 
    
    "With the plans?"  He said, knowing very well that's not what
    she had meant.
    
    "Please Ben . . . don't make this hard on me."
    
    "I'm sorry."  He stood up now and proffered his hand.  She
    took it and he helped her to her feet.  He looked down now at her.  He
    
    laid a hand on her chest, slipping a few fingers inside of the V neck
    of her blouse.  
    
    "Ben . . . I don't know how much I can give you . . ."
    
    "I'll take what I can get, Meg," he replied and bent down to
    kiss her tenderly.
    
    His lips were silk.  She could feel herself giving in to his tender touches.
    She didn't know if she should stop him.  She knew this was a direct violation
    of Aunt Sofia's rules.  But for the first time in her life she didn't
    really care about rules and regulations.  She only cared about the powerful
    man that had her in his arms.  
    
    "Let's get out of here, Meg," he said softly into her ear.
    She nodded. That was a good idea,  A very good idea.  Her mind was swimming
    
    with the possibilities of how wonderful this night could be because she
    was finally giving in to her desire; giving in to Ben.  She thought of
    white snow and warm fires and felt a bliss that she thought she'd never
    experience again.
                                    
        The ice is thin come on dive in underneath my lucid skin
    the cold is lost, forgotten.  Hours pass days pass time stands still
    light gets dark and darkness fills my secret heart forbidden . . . I
    think you worried for me then the subtle ways that I'd give in
    but I know you liked the show.  Tied down to this bed of shame 
       tried to move around the pain but Oh your soul is anchored
                            Sarah McLachlan
                     Ice'--Fumbling Towards Ecstasy
                                    
      1996 by M.S.
    


End file.
